


Tonight It's Different

by logicalDemoness



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (with respect to Martin's backstory), Autistic Martin Blackwood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jon is a good boyfriend, M/M, No Apocalypse AU, Shared Dream, post-159
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24217828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logicalDemoness/pseuds/logicalDemoness
Summary: Every night, the Archivist experiences nightmares that are not his own. Martin sometimes has nightmares too.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 6
Kudos: 117





	Tonight It's Different

**Author's Note:**

> Adapted from a roleplay between myself and JackyM. I wanted to explore the implication in 161 that Jon can see Martin's dreams. Much of Martin's dialogue is his work, and I couldn't have done it without him.  
> I tagged it as No Apocalypse AU but technically it could happen in the weeks between 159 and 160. *shrug*  
> This is my first fic in this fandom, and my first fic written in a long time!

The Archivist knew he was dreaming, of course. The knowledge surfaced in his mind the same way it did every night. He knew he was trespassing in the mind of someone touched by the Entities, could feel their dread permeating the air. Tonight they would relive the events of the statement they had given, feeling all the fear again, old scars ripped open into fresh wounds. And he would be unable to do anything but follow them and Behold it all. He didn’t need a mirror to know that every inch of his exposed skin was covered in darting eyes.

Tonight, there was something different about it. The atmosphere was familiar enough, but the details were new. A suburban road stretched before him, matching exactly the colour of the cold sky. Rows of nondescript houses lined either side, old brick townhomes that could have been charming if their owners had taken care of them. It could have been a scene from any number of statements, but the Archivist felt certain he had never visited this dream before. More unusually, he could not see the dreamer or get any sense of who they were. The street stretched endlessly into the horizon, entirely empty of life.

 _The Lonely then_ , he thought. His heart sank with the prospect of returning to it so soon after bringing Martin out. He did not know if he would be able to bear it, but he had no choice. He started down the street to see where the dream took him, and found himself drawn toward a particular house not far from where he stood. _This must be where they are hiding._ Without conscious thought, the Archivist recited what he saw, speaking to no one but the Ceaseless Watcher who placed him here.

“There is a little house on a little road in an unremarkable little suburb. It is in almost every way like the little houses next to it and the little houses in little suburbs all over the world. The people who live in this house live alone, even though they are a family. They do not speak to their neighbours, which they rationalize as being polite, not wanting to pry, and their neighbours do the same to them. There is a silence in this house that carries the weight of years of life and death and heartbreak and shouted arguments and long, anxious nights. The walls would echo the sounds of distrust and strife if there were any sounds left. But there is only one here now and the noise is only in his head.

“He does not wish to be here, does not know why he is here. He left this place a lifetime ago, a different man with different dreams, wanting only to be away and alone and free. The walls were always a prison to one day hope of escaping, the windows looking out at all that could be his but was not.”

He came to the front door and pressed a hand against it. It opened under his touch – a passage in, but not an invitation. He stepped inside with caution, still seeing no sign of the dreamer. The sitting room was covered in dust, the windows grimy, the carpet faded. Somewhere, a clock was ticking irregularly. There was the roar of distant traffic, although the street outside remained empty.

The overwhelming emotion he got from standing here was terror that his mother might find him. This was not his emotion. He barely remembered his own mother. The knowledge of what had happened in this house began to seep into him, and he continued his statement.

“The house is not a home, if it ever was one. It is a devious creature that calls itself a home, with a twisted smile that conceals the lie. It holds decades of memories that make it more than a house, yes, but less than a home. None of the warmth or acceptance that marks a place as _this is where I belong_ rather than merely _this is where I dwell_. He is alone here. Not in the way he wanted to be, but in the awful crushing loneliness of realization. Of looking back at all the times he was alone before he even knew he was. Of feelings he hoped were constant, but that shifted like the wind, giving him nothing to hold onto.”

Just then, the Archivist heard another voice from upstairs. He fell silent and listened. It was barely above a whisper, but he could hear it perfectly.

“No… please, God… just go away…”

It was like a punch to the gut. The voice was Martin’s.

Jon bolted up the stairs, cursing the Eye silently. _Fuck you, you’re not getting his trauma. You can’t make me._ On the second floor there was a short hallway with a door open. He only caught a brief glimpse of Martin, curled up on the bed and facing away from him, before the door slammed shut in his face. “Martin!” he shouted, knowing it would be useless. He had never been able to interact with the subjects of his dreams. That would defeat the purpose.

“Please… just once, leave me alone,” whispered Martin.

“But you’re not alone,” said Jon. “I’m right here. But you might as well be for all the good I can do. What a cruel joke.” He sat down on the floor, expecting to stay there in defiance until he awoke. Instead, there was a reply almost immediately.

“Jon? Is that you?”

“Y-Yes! It’s me, Martin! You can hear me!”

“Yeah… yeah, I can, I… okay. Okay, that’s great.” Martin began to softly laugh to himself.

Jon leaned up close to the door. “Why are you laughing?”

It wasn’t a question that compelled Martin to answer, but he did anyway. “Well it’s just… this isn’t how this usually goes.” Jon could hear him shifting on the bed. “There’s never anyone else here. Just me, on my lonesome. Thinking about it. This isn’t a normal dream, is it?”

 _Oh, he knows it too,_ Jon thought. Aloud, he said, “No, it’s not. It’s me doing my Beholding thing, and I’m so sorry you got dragged into it. I don’t get to choose who to visit. But this isn’t how it usually goes for me either. No one’s ever responded to me before.” After a pause, he added, “This is where you grew up, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is.” The door opened just a crack. Jon reached out to push it, but as he did, the eyes covering his hand all turned as one to peer inside. He recoiled.

“I’m sorry, I’d come in but I don’t think you’d want to see what I look like right now. I hoped you would never have to see me like this.”

Martin sighed. “It really doesn’t matter, Jon. I’ll have this dream again and again, with or without you. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had it before. They all bleed together, and they’re all the same. And I don’t _care_. Doesn’t matter how many times I think the same thoughts… it doesn’t change.”

“But it’s changed this time, right? I’m here for you this time.”

Martin laughed again, bitterly now. “But that doesn’t change how it feels. You really don't know how far away... how far away everything is, do you?”

Jon was struggling not to use Beholding’s power to know what he meant. Martin had always been reluctant to speak of this part of his life, and forcing it out of him was the last thing Jon wanted to do. “No, I don’t know exactly, but I… think I understand, on a subconscious level? Being here, it feels like, like this is all that exists, just this empty house in an empty world.”

“Yeah. Everything is here,” said Martin. “That's... that's why everything needs to be so... so far away. It doesn't hurt as much when it's far away. It's just quiet. Harmless. I really did think she loved me sometimes, y'know?”

Jon’s voice was quiet. “You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to. If you’re not ready.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever _be_ ready, Jon. I just wanted her to love me. And sometimes... sometimes I thought I'd finally done it. I thought... I thought that things might have finally gotten better. That she'd finally, actually moved past my dad, past herself... I was wrong, every time. Every damn time.”

“Martin…” was all Jon could say.

Martin buried his face in a pillow, but continued to talk. “I told myself she was just... what? Stubborn? Bitter? Traumatized? I don't know. But... but no matter how many times I tried to spin together someone for her who she couldn't hate, who she could just love, and appreciate, she... she always ended up not caring about any of that. None of it... none of it really mattered. Elias was right. She hated me.”

“Jesus, you can’t let _Elias_ of all people tell you what your life is,” said Jon. “He just wanted you miserable.”

“I know, I know, but what he showed me… I’ve never wanted to think she hates me. Do you have any idea how it feels, thinking your own mother hates you?”

Jon thought back to his own childhood, to his grandmother’s tired sighs as she took him to school, to the way she looked at him with resignation and grief. “I- I don’t know. Not the same for me as for you, not nearly to the same degree, but maybe something similar.”

“The worst part is, sometimes I felt like she didn’t. And it felt wonderful. It felt like how things were supposed to be, and I just. I just wanted to hold on to that forever. But then she'd look at me and remember. And it just... went away in an instant. It didn't matter how much I... how much I helped her, pretended she'd never hurt me. It all meant nothing, because she didn’t see me as myself. Only as an echo of my dad. She’d always- always remember-” Martin could no longer speak through his tears.

Jon was near tears himself from the very idea that someone could hurt Martin so thoroughly. He stood up and spoke in a shaky tone. “Hey, I need you know something. I love you not because you are helpful to me, or because you try to mould yourself into someone lovable. Precisely the opposite, I fell in love with you when I got to know the real you. When you recite your poetry and infodump about your favourite animals, and when you snort-laugh at your own stupid puns and when you trip over the kerb because you were looking at a pretty tree. When you’re being _you_.”

There was no reply. The muffled sobs continued. Jon knew what he had to do. Putting inhibition aside, he opened the door and sat down next to Martin on the bed. “I can’t solve your problems. But I can hold your hand through them. I will make sure you are never as alone as you feel.”

Martin slowly sat up, wiping the tears away. He looked at Jon, and while a look of shock flashed over his face for a moment, it was quickly replaced by a warm smile. “You… you look handsome like that.”

Jon tried not to meet Martin’s gaze, but that was impossible in his current state. “No I don’t. You really don’t have to try to assuage _my_ feelings at a time like this. Go ahead and freak out-” He was interrupted by Martin hugging him with a fierceness that took him off guard. He returned the hug and felt the all-pervading sense of terror ebbing like the tide. “You are really special, you know that?” he said.

“I don’t know about that,” said Martin, “I just know that I love you. Maybe… maybe that’s why the dream is different? For both of us? Because of love? That sounds silly when I put it like that…”

Jon shook his head. “No, no, it’s not silly. It’s as good a guess as any. I love you in a way I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone else before. It _is_ different with you, every day. You make me feel… comfortable. Like I, like I’m where I belong.”

“Like you’re home?” Martin smiled.

“Well, not to put too fine a point on it…”

“Jon, look!” Martin was pointing to Jon’s arm. He looked and found there was now a large patch of dark pockmarked skin, devoid of eyes, normal. Further examination revealed the same on his other arm, and the palms of his hands. Everywhere he had touched Martin, the eyes were retreating. Understanding without saying a word, Martin rubbed his hands on Jon’s cheeks, his forehead, his chin, until his face was his own again.

“Thank you,” said Jon, taking Martin’s hand in his own.

“I’m sorry,” Martin mumbled back.

“What for? You haven’t done anything to me.”

“I... I don't know. Did I... did I make you come here?”

“Oh. I don’t think so. I was rather worried it was the other way around, actually. Like maybe I was influencing the Eye’s choice by thinking about you so much lately.”

“Oh, well you didn’t mean it though, right? So don’t worry about it. Either way, I’m just sorry you had to experience all of this.”

“Martin, it's really ok,” said Jon, looking him in the eye. “It's... all this is a part of you, and loving you and living with you means living with that part. I can't just ignore it, not when it affects you so deeply. I love the whole of you.”

“You really mean that?”

“Of course I do,” said Jon.

“Hey, Jon. If – when – I have this dream again, will you be here?”

“I don’t know if it works that way. But I can promise I will be there when you wake up.”

He kissed Martin on the cheek, and Martin kissed him back on the lips. They embraced and the dreary house faded from their sight, and they both woke up at the same time, and they looked at each other and laughed and then embraced again, saying nothing because nothing needed to be said, and they lay in the sunshine together.


End file.
